Desert Fire (Legend and Lore Book 3) (2 page)

“You lie!” One of the other two men said, stepping closer to him, his hands curling threateningly into a fist.

Brand stared at him, hard, not knowing what to do to convince them he was not there to harm the magnificent beasts. That he was only looking for a place to belong. He could not speak of that, of course, because it was none of their business, none but his own, and by the way they were acting, he would not find a place to belong there anyway, so better to just stay quiet.

The one closest, the one who had backhanded him, straightened up, gaze cool as he regarded Brand. “We’ll leave him be for now. With no food or water, I am sure he will soon speak the truth.” So saying, he turned on his heel and stalked from the cell.

The other man glared at Brand, then came closer and hit him hard, sending Brand sprawling to the floor. The fist had broken his lip and his nose was bleeding, the taste something Brand was long used to. Not to mention the fists. The standing man kicked him hard in the gut as well, not content with just hitting him. Brand curled up, but refused to groan in pain—he would not give the bastard that much satisfaction.

He did not look up until the cell door creaked closed, and then only to roll over on his back. He was certainly no stranger to being beaten up, but he thought he was done with that since he had been banished. He had not thought he would be taken for a criminal and locked up in a dungeon in a strange country. He wondered what was awaiting him, because no matter what he said those men were convinced he was there to hurt their dragons, and they would see him punished for it.

Brand wiped the blood from his lip and nose, ruining the sleeve of his tunic as he did so. Then he shifted into wolf-form and curled up, hoping to get some rest before the three men came back to torture answers out of him, because surely that was what they would do next when refusing him food and water did not work.

Brand was roused from his doze at the familiar creak of the cell door opening. He fervently hoped the three men were not back so soon, because he could not take being beaten much more. But he could not move his head to see who was joining him, because it all hurt so much. It hurt too much even to shift—because even in wolf-form the pain would be unbearable.

A cool cloth placed on his forehead startled his eyes open, and he turned his head a fraction to look at his visitor. It was not one of the three men who had been interrogating him earlier in the day, or perhaps it was the day before? No, it was someone else entirely. Not that Brand could see him, because the way he had placed his torch left his own face in shadow, but the gentleness of his hands as he washed away the blood on Brand’s face told him it just could not be one of them. Not after how he had been treated.

“They have certainly done a number on you,” a low, soothing voice said. It was definitely masculine, so it was not a woman washing away his blood so carefully. “And yet you keep to your story.”

“Because it is true,” Brand rasped out, his throat sore from lack of water. “I am not here to hurt anyone, least of all your dragons.” Though he could. He could hurt the men, even kill them, if he wanted to, but that would leave him a criminal for sure, and Brand just wanted to be left in peace.

“Then who are you?” the man asked gently. “You came here with dragon slayers. Those men almost killed a youngling and the riders cannot let that pass. You were with those men, so you had to be a part of it. It is very black and white with them.”

Brand could hear some underlying bitterness in his voice, but he could not get himself to care for anyone but himself at the moment. His head throbbed, his body hurt, his throat was sore...

“I merely wanted to see the dragons,” he rasped out. “Yes, I came with slayers and I knew the intent of their visit, but I only came here to see them. To see if...” He trailed off.

“See if... what?” the man pressed softly.

“To see if their fire can burn me,” Brand replied, figuring he had nothing to lose by divulging that little piece of information.

“Burn you?” The man’s voice was sceptical, and Brand understood, because how many could control fire with their minds?

Lifting one of his hands, figuring the man would take it better if he started the flame above his palm than in free air, he let it light up into a little ball, hovering only inches from his skin.

A sharp intake of breath came from the man. In the light of the little fireball, Brand could see him. He was dressed in light-coloured clothing—breeches, a tunic tied with a colourful sash and soft boots—and a head-cloth of the same light-coloured material covered his head so that Brand could not see his hair. His face was no chore to look at though, golden-toned skin the same as the other three he had met of the desert people, lines smooth yet masculine, eyes a deep, dark colour. His plump lips were currently parted as he stared at the ball of flame in Brand’s hand.

“No fire can burn me,” Brand told him, “because I control fire with my mind. But your dragons are said to have the most powerful fire in them, and I want to see what those flames can do to me.”

The man’s face suddenly set into a scowl. “You want to meet an angry dragon head on, just to feel its fire?”

“Yes.” Brand would have nodded if he could, but his head hurt too much without moving, so he refrained from it. “I just need... I just need to figure out my place. Find somewhere to belong, because I have not met anyone like me before.” For some reason, he felt it safe to divulge his real reason to the man.

“I have not either,” the man replied. “Someone who can manipulate fire that way... no, not just manipulate, but create fire. It is magnificent.” The man sounded truly to be in awe. “You are magnificent, to be able to do such a thing.”

Brand couldn’t help but let out a sad, bitter chuckle at that. No one had ever believed him magnificent... more of a weakling that needed to be beat into both submission and manhood. And as a punishment for something he could not help—something he had had no say in, whatsoever.

“I will speak to the King,” the man said then. “Tell him your purpose. Only he can release prisoners of Commander Kamoor.”

Commander Kamoor... that had to be the man who rode the red dragon. The one who was always in charge, but it was not he who had delivered the worst beatings, that was the other one. And the third, he always kept back at the cell door, never coming closer.

“Thank you,” Brand whispered. “I really appr—“

The door slamming open and the sound of boots stalking inside broke him off. Brand vanished his flame, leaving them only in the light of the torch.

“Khatlah!” A familiar voice boomed out, and Brand felt his stomach knot in dread. The voice belonged to the one who had administered the most vicious beating.

The man beside him never seemed to lose his calm, though. He only turned his head, regarding the approaching man coolly. “Sakoptari. What is this, treating a man in such a way and leaving him?”

“He is a prisoner, little brother,” the other man snapped. “A prisoner and a slayer.” He came into the cell and jerked Brand to his feet. Brand almost lost his footing but managed to keep himself upright. It took a lot though, because his whole body still bore the evidence of his earlier treatment. “He will come with me, and if he does not confess to his crimes after today, he will nonetheless be executed.”

“You cannot do this!” Khatlah yelled, following in the other’s footsteps as he started to drag Brand with him towards the door. “He is innocent!”

Brand was roughly shoved to the floor as Sakoptari spun around to backhand Khatlah, who by his own words was his little brother. “You dare believe the words of a prisoner? Hasn’t it occurred to you that he will say anything to be let free?”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that sometimes people speak the truth?” Khatlah countered. “That sometimes things aren’t like you make them out to be!”

If Brand hadn’t been hurting so much, and worrying about where he was being taken, that sentence would’ve greatly intrigued him. Injury and pain kept his own fate front most in his mind—and judging by Sakoptari’s words, he was to be executed either way.

Khatlah was backhanded again and his brother hurled words at him in their native language, then he turned abruptly, grabbed a hold of Brand again and dragged him with him.

Brand was aware of Khatlah following after them, though he doubted there was much he could do for him. If Brand wanted to get out of whatever it was they had planned for him, he would have to do it himself, but if he did... he would have to get away somehow because surely they would not let him live then.

He was dragged through a hallway and they emerged out into bright sunlight. Brand watched in horror as a man stepped up to meet them, a man he had never seen before... and he was holding a whip.

No
! He wanted to tear his eyes away, but found that he couldn’t. They were locked on the ruthless tool, and the bright land around him faded to be replaced by a small clearing in the woods back home...

Brand grunted as he was being roughly tied to a tree, the rope digging into his hands and his arms, but not around his back. His back was free for...

He grunted as the whip at last connected with his back. He could feel his skin opening up at the rough material of the whip, could feel blood starting to trickle.

“Father!” he yelled out, in both pain and rage.

“You are no son of mine!” came the harsh reply, followed by another lash. “You told the traitor and the witch of our plans and they got away. This is all on you. Of course I should’ve known it would come to this—you never could take your eyes off of him when you were younger.”

Brand squeezed his eyes shut as his father’s words seemed to strike him even more painfully than the whip.

“You are weak!” A lash punctuated it, but Brand clenched his teeth, refusing to let any sound out. “Weak and pathetic, just like your mother! I never should’ve agreed to take you in, to raise you properly. It was obvious from the start you would become nothing!”

After that, Brand could remember little else. All he knew was that the whip lashes eventually stopped, that they untied him and threw him away with a warning of what would happen should he ever return. And after that... he just let the blackness take him.

Brand was jerked back to reality as he was shoved forward, finding himself once again sprawled on the ground. He lay for a moment, feeling the hot, dry ground under his hands. The warmth of it did not bother him—because Brand was used to being warm. Controlling fire as he did left him constantly warm, as if he suffered from a never-ending fever.

The powerful beat of wings had him looking up, and he forced himself up on his knees as he watched the red dragon descend, its rider jumping down from its back the moment it landed to stride over to Sakoptari and Khatlah. He was dressed much the same as Khatlah—only his clothes were black and lacked the colourful sash.

“What is going on here?” he demanded, his voice hard and strong and used to being obeyed.

“I am getting a confession out of this mongrel,” Sakoptari told him, turning away from Khatlah to face the man—who could be none other than the Commander Kamoor—straight on.

“Have you not beaten him enough?” the Commander demanded, his voice going stone cold.

Brand pushed himself up to his feet, swaying uncertainly for a moment, but managing to regain his balance. He hurt so much, but he could not stay on the ground anymore. He could not seem as weak as he felt.

“If the prisoner has not confessed yet, he never will,” the Commander continued. “He should be given a fine and be sent on his way, because he did not actually try to kill the youngling.”

Sakoptari made a sound of outrage, then he abruptly turned around and snatched the whip out of the servant’s hands. His cold eyes locked on Brand and he swung his arm, releasing the whip—

Brand let his power course through him and the whip caught fire before it was even halfway towards him. He let the fire travel up the length of it until it reached Sakoptari’s hand, and he promptly released the whip with a cry of pain.

“You can beat me and kick me,” he groaned out between clenched teeth, “and treat me like scum. But you will never whip me!”

Four pairs of eyes were on him, and Brand subsided, letting go of his peculiar power, feeling it retract—but it was still there, lying in wait, pulsing for the next time he would use it...

Commander Kamoor strode forward and roughly grabbed a hold off Brand’s chin, forcing his head up to meet his eyes.

“Your eyes. They are strange. And they were even stranger a moment ago.” He used his bruising hold to tilt Brand’s head, as if he could get a better look of his eyes that way. “What are you, to possess such peculiar eyes?”

“Do not care about his
eyes
!” Sakoptari snarled. “He just
attacked
me—he should be put in chains and executed to dare do harm to the crown prince!”

Brand’s eyes widened slightly in surprise and he let them flicker just the briefest moment to the man that had caused him the most harm. He was the crown prince?

“You deserved it,” Khatlah snapped, the contempt loud and clear in his voice. “I told you he was innocent and yet you continued to want to harm an already hurt man! I will not stand for this behaviour, and I use my authority as prince to declare this man my own personal guest for the foreseeable future, and to demand that no one harm him again.” His eyes stared coldly at Sakoptari, but they also strayed briefly to the Commander still holding Brand’s jaw in his bruising grip.

Sakoptari stared furiously at him, then snorted in contempt and stalked from the yard.

Grateful to see his back, Brand let his tension ease the tiniest bit.

Khatlah turned his full attention to him then, his eyes seeming to blaze in anger. “Let him go, Kamoor.”

Kamoor did as told, letting go as roughly as he had grabbed Brand, and turned to contemplate Khatlah, whom he seemed to tower over. “What are you trying to accomplish by keeping a foreigner in our midst? What do you think he will do when he goes running back home to the other side of the mountains? Our code is to never accept foreigners into our lands unless they swear an oath to never leave them, or have you forgotten that in your infatuation with this strange man?”